


One More Night

by Brokenjaw (Vrael)



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Begging, Cunnilingus, Explicitness, F/M, Masturbation, My first 5 times or whatever, Pegging, S4 exploration, So Five times Lucifer Came thinking about Chloe, You know all the stuff, You know right before S5, and one time that is not quite the same
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrael/pseuds/Brokenjaw
Summary: Of absolution and other fragile things.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 23
Kudos: 108





	1. Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MoanDiary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/gifts).



Lucifer knows, without a shadow of a doubt, he loves Detective Chloe Jane Decker. Or perhaps  _ loved _ is the correct word. But tenses don’t particularly matter at this impasse. Not now. 

She betrayed him. Almost killed him. And not only had she tried to kill him, but that knowledge came with the truth that she couldn’t even bear to look at him. Heaping handful of table salt added to the festering wound. His own heart decided to pack it up, call it a day, and leave. All that's left is a raw, ragged emptiness stuffed with cocaine, booze and bile. He isn't sure what day it is, or what night. And he doesn’t much care. Time has ceased to matter in all ways, but one. It exists now only to claw at his bones with its agonizing passage. 

Sweat curdles in the creases of his skin. He hasn’t shaved. He hasn't combed his hair. He looks very much like Chloe’s once, oh so flattering picture of him:  _ A homeless magician. _ His reflection in the bathroom mirror is a ghastly thing, but it's hard to look away. He needs to see what Chloe sees. The horror. The absolute fear that left her shaking in her sensible brown boots. 

The edges of his vision blur. A thorny, tangled dark. The kind that pulls and catches. He is lost. He is dizzy. He is drunk. And high as a bloody kite. 

His mind slips into the comforting ache of hell and he wears it like a favorite suit, the lines and the fit is just right. The stench of copper and sulfur chokes at his lungs, but it feels right and familiar, just like the ring on his finger. It cloys and tugs at his very blood.

Lucifer palms his growing erection through the fabric of his bathrobe. Helpless, and angry.

The Detective is a sinner like the rest. And she is just as guilty. 

Would she have her own room? This woman who had the audacity to lie to the Devil? This pathetic human that had sheer hubris to make him believe? He would like to think so, yes. At least part of him would. There is a vicious part of him that is screaming out in pain. There is a creature that slithers through the dark and demands satisfaction.

For her own poisonous designs, perhaps she will have to watch him die, over and over. For her lies in the dark, perhaps she must lie forever - without a scrap of truth falling from her lips. Or perhaps she could share the same room as Cain. Fighting. Fucking. Killing and lying for all of eternity. If the world's first murderer wanted her so bad, well, maybe he should take her. Chloe and Cain both had more in common than he had ever assumed.

But oh, the Devil is a jealous beast. Before he can even really consider the latter option, fury surges hot in his chest. It feels like magma, bubbling and scalding worse than his fall from heaven. 

Chloe is still his, and his alone. 

Lucifer pictures her in Hell. On a throne, next to his. She would be so cold, so statuesque in iron, and leather and gemstones, chained right down to the basalt. The Detective would be beautiful, but sad, and frigid, and furious. There would be a crown there, just digging into the gentle slope of her brow. He would bare her bitterness in silence, until, after the march of ages pass, they both eventually break. 

He would grab her by the hair, throwing her to her knees, and she would let him. 

“Lucifer,” she growls, an accusation. An insult. Like one would hiss Judas.

_ And fuck it, he’s hard _ . If Chloe wants the Devil? Well, she can have the Devil.

In this little fantasy he has horns. He has hooves. He has teeth that gnash and catch. Fangs that draw blood. Rancid peeled back lips that have never known love or a lover. Great leathery wings spill out behind him, a tail flashes like the crack of a whip. His hooked claws rip off her dress in one, fluid movement.

“How could you do this to me!” He snarls at her, huge and menacing. His body cages Chloe’s so that there is no escape. “How could you?”

Her skin is alabaster against scars and ruination. It's a softness that infuriates him and makes him seethe. He could take her now. Rough and possessive, like an animal. A king doesn't need anyone’s permission. He paws at her breasts, presses against her backside. The Detective gasps beneath him, knees parted, eager for her punishment. Guilt is just another facet of desire after all. It's the thirst to be brought to justice. The thirst to atone. 

Lucifer growls in her ear, his breath steam and smoke. “So wet for me, Detective,” he says, with a claw trailing down her sex. “So eager. Is this what you wanted? Is this what you needed?”

He doesn’t need Chloe to love him back. He really doesn’t. What use is love to the Devil? To Satan? 

He means to wrap his claws around her pretty little throat and squeeze, to mark that elegant neck of hers, but he can’t seem to do it. Instead, he trails a hand upward, and strokes her cheek. There’s a wetness there too. 

Tears.

“What are you waiting for, Lucifer?” Chloe whispers. Forget-me-not eyes slice into his own.    


Glass shatters under his clawed fingertips. The floresecents of the bathroom flicker and wink out. His cock is softening against the meat of his thigh and the remnants of his orgasm spatter the sink cabinets. Lucifer grabs a wad of toilet paper, wets it, and quickly cleans himself up. 

He will replace the broken mirror in the morning. 


	2. Judea

“Lucifer?”

His would-be murderess stands in a rough hewn doorway, clothed in a white and billowing robe. A loose hood shrouds her golden hair and leather sandals wrap around her otherwise bare feet. Sunlight limns Chloe's shoulders like a cape. 

_ So virginal _ , Lucifer thinks. Like one of those icons that humans are so very fond of. How easily she could sit at a church altar. How coyly she would cast her gaze away from the sins her own congregation has committed. The Detective is as radiant as a stab wound, and she gores just as deep. 

There’s birdsong, and laughter in the distance, and the Devil tilts his head, drinking in everything else.

He recognizes stone work he laid by his own hand, the rugs and mats he once bartered for in eons long since passed. He knows the splendid gifts of spices, meticulously stacked in earthen jars. The few meager possessions he had before his taste blossomed into extravagance. The smell of terebinth, to the whispering of the wild sweet oats in the far off fields nearly strangles him. So distant, but oh so familiar.

Looking down at himself, he finds that he isn’t clothed much differently than Chloe. His own robes mirror her own. His hair is longer, curlier, and curves around his ears like a thorny crown. Thankfully, he doesn’t have a full on beard, but his stubble has grown perilously close to overriding the matter. He can feel it stirring in the faint breeze.

But his gaze inevitably returns to the doorway. To Chloe. Bottle blue eyes burn into his, patient, but impatient. It’s a question without a question. She doesn’t say she’s sorry. No sweet nothings of an apology leave her throat. She just stands there, at the threshold, unsure if Lucifer would ever welcome her in again.

Chloe Decker is the impossible bruise he worries with his thumb, an ache he revisits against again and again. Even wounded, it is not in his nature to deny her. There is not enough acid in him to leave her outside. 

He goes to her, bare feet padding over hard packed earth.

“Come in,” he says, defeated. “Take them off.”

“I’m not stripping in your doorway, Lucifer,” she huffs.

He smiles, small but sad. “Your sandals, Detective.”

He leads her to a small bench he built into the front courtyard. It's just as simple and imperfect as anything else, but his own. Carved wood and rough sculpted clay.

After a bit of hesitation, Chloe sits and scandalously reveals a pair of perfect legs beneath her robe. The leather straps wrap all the way up her calf, and are a far cry from her usual, sensible brown shoes. It’s clear she didn’t choose this attire because she picks and picks at one of her ties, until Lucifer, frustrated, kneels at her feet.

“Thanks,” she mumbles.

“You would think LAPD’s finest could figure out a simple knot,” he hums irritably.

“Hmmm…well, apparently  _ knot _ .”

He glances back up at her, surprised. The Detective is smiling down at him, with all the radiance of sunlight. She’s soft around all her sharp corners, proud of her own horrible joke.

Lucifer grimaces. “Did you really think bad puns were the way back into the Devil’s good graces?”

“Is it working?”

He could forgive her. He wants to.  _ He wants to _ . But his blood boils and he can almost taste the poison on his teeth. And he knows she can see it.

“Lucifer, I-“

“Shush. None of that.”

The truth is he doesn’t actually want to hear her apology. He knows why she did it. He’s a monster, the world’s oldest and first. He should be flattered she picked poison instead of a good old fashioned bullet, or a knife. Poison is at least a bit more personal. A bit more gentle into the goodnight. 

His careful hands slide along her skin, pulling at her laces. Chloe is warm and soft, but not the kind of soft Eve is. He can feel coiled muscle there, beneath a veneer of cream and honey. Steel beneath cashmere and silk.

He peels off her sandals, one by one, and lines them up next to his, forgotten in a corner. There’s a golden basin, right by her feet, as well as a pitcher and a tray he doesn’t remember placing there. But it’s convenient nonetheless. He dips both of her feet in the water without comment, even though she flinches.

“Relax,” he tells her. “Let me take care of you.”

And miracle of miracles, she nods. Her jaw is tense, but the set of her shoulders gentles. There is a trust there he never would have expected. Not from her. Not now.

He starts with the soles of her feet, knuckles and thumbs kneading out her arches. Tendons smooth under his careful presses. A compressed tightness eases. He curves his touch around the delicate bones of her toes, rolls along her ankles. He moves to her calves, firmly massaging the swell of muscle. Dirt and sand washes away, and with it something else. Anger perhaps. Blame. Lucifer exhales a long breath, heavy as lead, light as goose down. 

Once he feels that she’s sufficiently cleansed, he takes the spotless hem of his robe and dries her off, gentle as can be. Chloe arches a brow, but doesn’t say a word. She knows better than to complain for the lack of towels it seems. 

Next, he goes for the oil. The pitcher is rough, but what’s inside is worth more than its weight in diamonds and jewels. It smells strongly of myrrh. Of cinnamon. And of olive blossoms. It’s pungent and sweet. Fit for anointing princes and priests and kings. But today it has a higher and more holy use. 

Lucifer warms a handful between his palms and slicks up Chloe’s legs, pushing aside the white linen. He glides across her flesh, making shimmering track marks, gilding her as best as he is able. In his hands she becomes smooth marble. An artist’s work that is too divine to be real. A goddess unearthly to fully describe. A statue he has come before, on his knees, to repent. 

He cannot help himself. His lips caress the fragile, vellum-like skin on the inside of her knee. And instead of pulling away, Chloe’s hands go to his scalp. Her fingers threat through his curls, scratching ever so lightly against the back of his skull. It’s an invitation, a merciful invitation if ever there was one.

His teeth scrape upwards, along a bead of sweat. He follows sugary brine and salt with his tongue. She tastes like the edges of creation, the bright spark and tang of mortality. The Sea of Galilee is between her thighs, and he laps at its silty shore. 

He can be so good for her. He wants to be above all else.

Chloe is wet for him. So wet and burning. She trembles like the walls of Jericho. From her mouth comes the sound of harps, and lyres, and perhaps the odd gasping trumpet. Her cunt is drips with the heaviness of ripe figs. Of grapes fat and blistering on the vine. He could drink from her cup for an age upon age. 

“You’re worthy,” she pants through quivering lips.

“I am worthy,” he hums into her. He crooks a finger. One, and then two. His tongue swipes upwards, desperate to catch Chloe’s nectar. Desperate to sup at the blossom hidden amongst all her steel.

“I forgive you,” Chloe says, her hand cool against the back of Lucifer’s neck. 

“I forgive you,” Lucifer says back, with his nose pressed snuggly against her pubic bone. He can feel her exhale. Her pulse thrumming to her core. 

“You are mine.” Chloe purrs, with her legs beginning to tighten around his head. She is so beautiful. So radiant. Her light outshines everything else in the universe, and he is absolutely blinded by it. Absolutely helpless in its wake. 

“I am yours-”

And Lucifer comes into silk sheets. 

It’s the early hours of Los Angeles. Lights of distant buildings twinkle in the black haze outside of the penthouse windows. He swallows back the silence, the darkness, the loneliness. There is an echoing pit in his chest, a cavern in his stomach. It's an emptiness without depth and without fathom. 

Eve sleeps soundly beside him, softly snoring open mouthed into a pillow and the apartment is littered with slumbering bodies, sex-drunk and passed out. Lucifer digs into his bedside table drawer. Beneath dildos, a bottle of lube, and packet of coke there’s a flask filled to the brim with whiskey. 

The Devil drinks long and deep, just to get the taste of Chloe and Judea off his lips.

It burns all the way down. 


	3. Kyoto

The Telly is too loud, but far be it from him to turn it down. He’s not one to ruin a good time, especially Eve’s. She’s watching some sort of animated show, bright and stuttery, and laughing all the while. 

He tries to focus on the screen, through liquor, and the weed, and a bit of the good old Oxycontin. But the downer’s have him down, all loose limbed and languid. He recognizes a bit of painted scenery. Old temples, stylized for the modern age with digital paint and movement. One of the characters runs under a bright red wooden arch. 

“Kyoto.” Lucifer mumbles.

“You were in Japan?” Eve asks through a mouthful of popcorn,

“Of course I was.” He’s been everywhere. Seen it all. Done it all. 

But Eve isn’t paying attention, not really. Her attention is singularly fixated on his very expensive OLED. 

Lucifer closes his eyes.

Japan. Nihon-koku. They really had style back in the day. A simple, sweet kind of decadence. Poetry, and song, and food. There was a kind of peace so far removed from the current hustle and bustle of Tokyo. It was a land without screaming neon, and howling vending machines. Not that he doesn’t like the action, the non-stop buzz. But oh, they had it figured out once upon a time. 

He’d once made a quiet home in the Omi province, or what is now known as the Shiga prefecture. For all intents and purposes it’s a quiet patch of land, only known for the fact it’s nestled next to it’s more famous brother, Kyoto. The place captured in Eve’s animated frames. 

It’s easy to get lost in his memories. It's even easier to place Chloe there. She would love it. The architecture, the clean lines. The smooth curves. The peat moss green, the rich earth, and wood gleaming copper, like a tiger's eye. Running water, and swaying trees. A fantasy forms and sings through his bones, riding high on his delectable concoction of a nightcap. 

Rain stumbles against the roof tiles. It's high summer, but a thunderstorm has swept itself in, snapping the stagnant, humid air. The air is electric, and his skin is sticky with sweat. 

Chloe reclines next to him, half-watching the downpour through parted shoji screens. She is perfectly relaxed. Pristinely naked.

He wants to compare her skin to cherry blossom petals, to silken robes smooth and glittering. The hushing, shushing of fabric as it slips down, and down, and down. She is the glass-like surface of a pond, supple, tranquil, who’s surface churns ever so rarely to reveal the golden fish who live inside. Her nipples are pert in the cooling air, her lithe, long ligaments gather the softest of shadows. She is an elegant brushstroke given movement, and breath, and form. 

Satsuma mandarins lie forgotten and half-peeled in a lacquered dish. Their seeds are scattered, but the juices still linger on their fingers - and he and Chloe take turns lapping up the remains from each other's skin. Her tongue lazily whorls around a knuckle, her lips suck gently on his thumb. She nips at his fingernails, stinging and soothing all at once and in return he laves at the spaces between delicate muscle and bone, kisses the sugar off her open palms. He nuzzles into her touch, scraping stubble against the arches of her hands.

And when it’s too much he captures her mouth with his own, taking her entire attention. 

Chloe tastes like their shared bottle of sake, sweet and burning and alive. Drinking from her is comparable to a cool stream in the heat of a locust-hissing summer. She is melt-water on his tongue, the rain that drips from his eyelashes that’s not salty enough to be tears. He swallows her hungrily, pressing her body beneath his, and she does not resist. 

She’s against the tatami mat, her weight crinkling the woven straw. Her hands are at the obi at his waist, slowly pulling open the sash like one would open a present. The top robe falls open, and the wide sleeves shrug off his shoulders. He lets it pool to the floor, a puddle of blue and gold, of falcons taking flight, and rushes billowing in a springtime wind. 

A wandering caress goes to his chonmage. He can’t particularly say he was ever attached to the hairstyle, but the way Chloe undoes his topknot is doing things for him. Her gentle hand loosens his hair, and cards it out so it tumbles down, tickling his shoulders. She scratches at his scalp, smiling at his wild mane. The shape of her mouth is gentle as snowfall and sunshine.

Lucifer strokes her cheek, and her grin softens at the edges, warm and tender as fresh ash. She parts his under robe, her touch warm and firm across the planes of his exposed chest. They pull downward and slide, pulling the rest of him open. He’s hard, painfully hard, but ever so patient. He will take and give whatever Chloe sees fit as an exchange, but a desperate ache twists in his gut just the same.

Her eyelashes flutter and he’s reminded of butterflies hidden in tree bowers after rain. They are sleepy whispering things, precious in their fragility. She knows how he hurts.

Quick as a sword strike she’s on him. Her lips drag down his cock in one dangerous and fluid motion. He might be above her, caging her with his body, but oh, is she the one in control. His brain frissions out to the sound of rain. Of water. Of rushing wind and lightning. 

Her pale flesh glows like moonbeams, the powdery sand of a quiet beach, and the light that dances over the twists of the tide. His own limbs tremble as he tries to hold himself steady just to see her. Feeling her, as delicious as it is, is not enough. 

Chloe's golden head bobs out a rhythm and it is the sweetest anguish, the most exquisite torture. His grip rips into the woven mat, and creaks into the wood below. She kneads into the small of his back, scoring crescents and stars. Thumbs skate up his slides and she pulls him deeper and deeper.

Her teeth graze gently at the base, and he almost keens right then and there. His hips back downward, but Chloe continues. Lucifer doesn’t want this to end, not this moment, so he stretches it out as far as he can, clamping back the breath inside his lungs.

He could share this all with her. Her could, he could, he could. The sweetness of summer melons. The cascading breeze in the far off trees. He could give her a thousand puddles to dance in. A thousand and more quiet, warm evenings shrouded in pine. Golden hairpieces, silver bolts of silk, rubies as red as a severed artery. All the dark nights in creation. Every single sunny day. It’s hers, it’s all hers and all she has to do is ask. 

Lucifer comes in the slick palm of his hand, with Eve careless on the other side of the couch. The animated show she’s watching has her enraptured.

She doesn’t even hear him groan over her bucket of popcorn.

**Author's Note:**

> For MoanDiary, who is the coolest motherfucker around. 
> 
> Inspired by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UN3ftt-Gr24
> 
> and
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qr8Vd1Id7W4
> 
> Because its a pandemic and I want to have 2004 feelings in peace.


End file.
